I should have traded the Kingslayer for Sansa when you first urged it,” Robb said as they walked the gallery. “If I’d offered to wed her to the Knight of Flowers, the Tyrells might be ours instead of Joffrey’s. I should have thought of that.
Excerpt From: George R. R. Martin. “A Storm of Swords.” Bantam Books, 2000-10-31 00:00:00-06:00.
Just a reminder that in ASOS, Robb tells Catelyn she was right to urge him to trade Jaime for Sansa and that he should have listened to her.
To be fair, Margaery Tyrell would have still been wed to Joffrey probably, and the Tyrells are going to ally themselves with whomever gives them the best chance to survive…..so the Lannisters. Plus, then the Lannisters get Jaime back which is a huge asset to them, whereas Sansa is basically useless.
My favorite poets don’t care about rhyme or meter. Some do, but that’s not why they’re my favorites. I love them because for better or worse they capture a moment. Not in the same way that so many shitty new age, wannabe “photographers” do. They don’t just describe a scene and then italicize. There’s no need for sepia. They have earned a place in my personal pantheon of great poets because reading their work evokes an emotion from me that I had forgotten. I’m not a great poet. I know that. I wish more writers could look at their work and objectively say, “wow, this is a piece of shit.” Bah, it’s pointless to spend any more of my day thinking about how the world could be better. I wasted all this time typing just to say that I write to remind me of moments. I can’t bear to forget. If you forget the things that influenced the person you have become, are you really that person? I’d say you’re a ghost. Or worse, a forgotten robot, acting out a program for a company that doesn’t even exist. How long have you been pressing sheet metal into a fucking mold? How long will you continue to do so before you look up and realize that it never mattered. The world’s moved on. So please indulge me, this pathetic excuse for poetry. For it will invoke in me a memory, and I must not forget.
So here’s a shitty poem I wrote after watching The Place Behind the Pines. Let me reiterate, it’s not good
was only about five or six, and had he been alone I would have forgiven him. No harm no foul, go your ways, it’s all good. Only, there had to be at least three other kids sitting in the lobby waiting with their parents for their food respectfully. So clearly it could be done. This child however was running around with a pink rubber ball and bouncing it haphazardly. The ball would careen of a wall and go rolling over here and his drunken baby deer gait would follow. Then he’d grasp the ball and heave it with all the grace of Michael J. Fox, watch it bounce and follow it again. Part of me recalled the days of playing with nondescript rubber balls and entertaining myself. A much larger part of me, jaded by the years (albeit few), was slowly losing my shit. Generally this is the part where I defend myself by saying how busy it was, and how I’d been having a shitty tip night, but honestly I just wanted more than anything for the earth to open and swallow this giggling child whole. And at that exact moment, as if God or the universe or what have you heard my innermost cry, the ball rolled slowly to my feet. Here, yet another opportunity arises for me to escape condemnation by claiming that my actions were purely instinctual. Alas, as I watched that child race toward me, head tilted forward in the falling run that is the province of children, time slowed down. I could see the happiness in his eyes, and the ball beckoned. I waited. Three steps. Two steps. One. Then I kicked the ball clear across the room.
For a moment the boy was dumbfounded. Then he looked at me, and perhaps he saw reflected in my eyes the same unrestrained glee that marks the visage of us all when still young and unabashedly cruel. He hated me then, maybe even a little bit more than I hated him. In that instant was laid bare a battle that had been waged for centuries betwixt simpering children seeking attention by being disruptive and the adults that dream of drowning them. It was his move, and he knew it. His eyes contorted and his lip trembled, as the boy drew his trump card. The little bitch was going to cry.
Soooo I ran into the back and waited for his dad to get their food and leave.
These are the first days of fall. The wind at evening smells of roads still to be traveled, while the sound of leaves blowing across the lawns is like an unsettled feeling in the blood, the desire to get in a car and just keep driving. A man and a dog descend their front steps. The dog says, Let’s go downtown and get crazy drunk. Let’s tip over all the trash cans we can find. This is how dogs deal with the prospect of change. But in his sense of the season, the man is struck by the oppressiveness of his past, how his memories which were shifting and fluid have grown more solid until it seems he can see remembered faces caught up among the dark places in the trees. The dog says, Let’s pick up some girls and just rip off their clothes. Let’s dig holes everywhere. Above his house, the man notices wisps of cloud crossing the face of the moon. Like in a movie, he says to himself, a movie about a person leaving on a journey. He looks down the street to the hills outside of town and finds the cut where the road heads north. He thinks of driving on that road and the dusty smell of the car heater, which hasn’t been used since last winter. The dog says, Let’s go down to the diner and sniff people’s legs. Let’s stuff ourselves on burgers. In the man’s mind, the road is empty and dark. Pine trees press down to the edge of the shoulder, where the eyes of animals, fixed in his headlights, shine like small cautions against the night. Sometimes a passing truck makes his whole car shake. The dog says, Let’s go to sleep. Let’s lie down by the fire and put our tails over our noses. But the man wants to drive all night, crossing one state line after another, and never stop until the sun creeps into his rearview mirror. Then he’ll pull over and rest awhile before starting again, and at dusk he’ll crest a hill and there, filling a valley, will be the lights of a city entirely new to him. But the dog says, Let’s just go back inside. Let’s not do anything tonight. So they walk back up the sidewalk to the front steps. How is it possible to want so many things and still want nothing. The man wants to sleep and wants to hit his head again and again against a wall. Why is it all so difficult? But the dog says, Let’s go make a sandwich. Let’s make the tallest sandwich anyone’s ever seen. And that’s what they do and that’s where the man’s wife finds him, staring into the refrigerator as if into the place where the answers are kept- the ones telling why you get up in the morning and how it is possible to sleep at night, answers to what comes next and how to like it.
She was an amorphous blob of a woman. Gelatinous material unceremoniously shoveled into a skin suit. Lacking even the faintest semblance of a feminine figure, she made due by subdividing her overall bulk with a mess of bra straps and suppression hose. A ghastly spectacle.
Haha wrote this a long time ago about a customer on the back of a receipt, and found it wadded up in an old binder.
Invariably at some point in the insomniac experience, after you have exhausted all the Married with Children reruns or what have you, you’ll find yourself staring blindly into the soul sucking repitition of an infomercial. To that infernal place go I.